7 AM.
The sun is awake. The world yawns,
as it takes in the light on its face.
A lady stands on her balcony,
wearing a grey salwar kameez,
some hope,
and a cup of water in her hand.
She offers the water to the sun,
makes a wish, maybe a prayer.
I watch from afar,
thinking, maybe the sun too wakes,
in hopes of her...
This lady here, tied between the walls
of her congested 2 BHK;
while she hopes and prays,
maybe the sun too waits
for her little glass of water,
and her radiant face.
After all, aren't thirst, and hope,
universal?
But I just wonder, if each of us
is hoping, wishing, wanting,
who is, actually, listening?

-

The little details.
What would they think of this? In love, platonic, romantic, familial, social - you often catch yourself thinking, what would they feel about this? But as you grow, you learn how the details are absolutely upto you, no?
How you part your hair, which side of the table the tea-cup rests, how many table-lights are just right, for you to finally concentrate? When people-pleasing is ingrained, you will often find yourself wondering what will suit everyone the best...but, the little details, they are all for yourself, no? The exact time you wake, your side of the bed, how many buckets of water needed to cleanse all the past mistakes, which book you pick to read: all yours, these details. Who said control lay in the bigger things, when the little-ness is yours, the little breaks, the tiny breaths, the details?
'No one is watching!", you panic...
"no one is watching", you finally exhale in relief.

-

The other day, the ocean sat
on her knees and said,
"hey, enough of this,
what is even the point
of my waves!
Over and over and over,
they just emerge, then disappear,
even the shore sits unaffected!"
The shore smiled, said,
"Listen, Miss. You think your waves
are pointless? Look at me!
I sit here, nowhere to go,
I sit here and just meditate!"
The ocean was irritated, "I, too,
want that."
The shore smiled, again,
said, "you can't. Your tsunami within,
will never allow that. How about,
you keep the waves,
while knowing,
a shore sits meditating,
looking unaffected,
but your waves are all he awaits!"
The ocean laughed, sent fifteen hundred
waves towards the shore,
and realised,
maybe her waves are how
she meditates.
Nothing changes, yet,
everything keeps changing regardless.

-

7:24 PM.
I sit down to write.
But what?
What is there left, to say,
that hasn't been said before?
Years before me, years alongside,
the greats have written everything
that I imagine writing.
"Flowers blooming, some fading,
mangoes cut and served on a steel plate,
a lone chair on the verandah;
the imprints of mother's hands
in neatly folded clothes,
father in his worn out t-shirt, smiles..."
My brain mumbles some lines.
What do you write,
when all has already been said?
You write what you feel. Always.

-

You will let it out
this light within,
for it will burn your insides
if you don't.
But outside, the light
will strike a tree, a house,
a broken skeleton of a human,
and all that will remain
will be a mere shadow of yourself.
So, you will let it in,
this light within
that you had let out.
And after scores of trials
of this "in and out" business,
one day you will build,
a lighthouse inside your chest.
Shadows and light, all inside,
but your glow will illuminate
even what remains outside.

-

Is my happiness greater than
your happiness?
My success, bigger than
your success?
My love, grander than
your love?
My power, my money, my house, my degrees, my destiny...
is it all, more?
So much time goes...
we forget, to pause and ask,
"is this my peace, my heart, my home?"

-

Sometimes maybe,
nonchalance
is necessary.
We blame this and that,
for not caring enough,
for not stopping on their tracks,
for moving, walking,
without catching a breath for us,
but,
when things go wrong,
terribly wrong,
like a plane crash,
or a life that's deemed trash,
don't we all turn towards
things that are the most
nonchalant?
Like the sun, the moon,
or God (if you must),
don't we all, after all,want
some nonchalant love?
Perhaps, to survive, we must all
become a little nonchalant
in this world.
Isn't that what they all, fancily
term as, "the show must go on?"

-

Some fret about the sky,
some cry about the clouds;
in emptiness and in fullness,
there is always something
to occupy one's mind.
Perhaps, the moon or the sun
has all the answers,
but neither ever replies.
So some fret about the sky,
some cry about the clouds:
while the sun and the moon shine.
Someday, the ocean will rise
and touch the sky,
maybe then, it will not look like
the sky is too empty, or too full,
just right.

-

The ocean boasted
of her depths,
her tsunamis, her waves;
meanwhile, humans
kept crowding
the shallow shores
and their sand.
Only the moon shone through,
but the ocean depths evaded it too.
Silently, her interiors worked,
spun a whole world,
that the world conveniently
kept terming an "inexplicable darkness."
She did miss, the shallow shores,
time and time again,
so, waved and waved
to touch the sand.
Yet, she always returned,
sometimes empty handed,
sometimes with some remnant sand,
to her own core.
Only the moon shone through,
but the ocean depths evaded it too.
Yet, the moon had all the time
to be her witness,
and just wait outside.
And for the ocean, that made
all the difference.
To be loved is to be seen, nothing else.

-

12:43.
The world keeps shifting. You think the earth is just rotating, but new plants, ideas, events are continually erupting. Guns and roses collide somewhere, fire erupts elsewhere, maybe in your heart, maybe everyone's, everywhere? The world keeps shifting.
"To divide or not to divide?" becomes a decisive question.
"To empath, or engage only with the vicinity of the self?" a pertinent problem.
Amidst all these, a butterfly flaps its wings somewhere: guns are out, hearts sealed, people tip-toe around topics, and the earth, still, keeps rotating...
New plants, ideas, events are continually erupting, and yet, maybe the world is not shifting....

-